Remorse
by Update
Summary: Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together? Yes, but it would be excruciatingly painful. Why? How do you do it? Remorse.


I own nothing. The summary is quoted from the Deathly Hallows.

The man was tall and muscular, his face hard as he strode between the trees. A huge sword was belted at his hip, a wand in his hand. The scars on his hands and the one that crossed his cheek evidenced his experience with them. He was maybe thirty-three, red-tinged blond hair not yet threaded with grey, and he was powerful. Powerful and great, and every decent wizard thanked God that he was not of the Dark.

The man was here to right a wrong. He was here to hunt down a traitor. He was here to duel the one enemy who he could not be sure of beating. He was here to end an evil. He was here to fight the one battle in which victory was not a surety. He was here to destroy the most evil wizard the world has ever known.

He was here to kill his best friend.

Two women followed, a few steps behind. They would not fight, though they also held wands. This was his battle. He had made them promise, swear not to interfere. Only if he was beaten would they step in and complete the task.

The man they hunted was near. He could feel it. The time of truth was near. The ultimate test: would he have the strength to do what must be done? The thought surfaced, the one he had kept buried. Even if he had the courage, did he have the ability to beat the other man?

They would see. They would see.

Movement in a clearing up ahead. He signalled the two women: spread out, circle him. They did so silently, not questioning his decisions. He knew, if he failed in his task and yet survived, it would not be they who would judge him. It would be himself.

He could see with a glance that they were in position. He gave a slight nod, and stepped forward.

The man in the clearing turned, his mouth partly open. He glanced behind him and to the sides, staking out the odds. Then he pulled his sword from his sheath.

The first man took another step forward. "You will answer to me, and only to me."

"I would not expect otherwise."

Swords: an odd choice, given that the root of both their friendship and their enmity stemmed from magic. But perhaps it was better thus.

He set his own wand aside.

One of the women made a motion, but remembered her promise, stayed her hand.

The men approached each other. The first sized up his opponent. Equally matched, as always. They had been close. Now, enemies, they remained ironically similar. The other man was hard-faced. He may have had many faults – pride, treachery, prejudice – but he was no coward. He had never been a coward.

They crossed swords in the time-honoured fashion, then began. Steel clashed. Duck and strike. Parry and thrust. Block and counter. They whirled around the clearing, the women watching, tense, exerting all their will-power to keep still.

Sweat drenched the other man's dark hair, trickled into his eyes. His breathing was harsh. But the first was not reassured: he was in the same state.

And then it came: the mis-directed strike, the fouled block. The other man had a clear swing at him. But miraculously – inexplicably – he hesitated. And the first man summoned all the strength he had, and drove his sword into his opponent's gut.

The other man slid to the ground, dropping his own sword, staring at his former friend. At the man who had brought him down.

"You were always the best with the sword, Godric." His voice is choked, strangled.

The man's companions are with him now, staring at the dying wizard. He raises himself on one elbow. "I deserve this."

No one argues.

One of the women grabs her friend's arm. "Godric!" He turns towards her. "Horcruxes!"

The three of them turn back to the man on the ground. That was the first thing that they heard about him, the first rumour. A long time ago, now.

He looks up at them. "One. I made one. I… regret it, now."

They do not believe him, and they can tell that he knows this.

"Is there some way we can undo it?" Godric asks the women.

The same one answers. "Short of destroying the actual Horcrux – an almost impossible feat – he has to feel remorse. We can't do anything about that."

The dying man is not listening. "Godric." Almost unwillingly, his killer kneels beside him. "Godric… I have done things… even I am not proud…" He lets out a gasp-moan of pain. "You were right." A spluttering laugh, cut short. "I wish… I…" his voice is only a whisper now; he has fallen back to the ground. "I am sorry. I want… I want to take it… take it all back… His face is contorted with pain, but its cause is not his wound. "I want… I want to fix it…" His eyes close.

In spite of the Horcrux, they do not open again.


End file.
